“The person who knows only one religion, knows none”
Image via Chrismon.
Everyone runs marathons. But why do sensible people torture themselves over a distance of more than 42 kilometers? And why do hundreds of thousands of people cheer them on?
German journalist, runner, and photographer Hilmar Schmundt ran the Berlin Marathon with an eye towards its spiritual—even effervescent—elements and interviewed me about religion, running, and 21st-century asceticism along the way.
Read the results in Chrismon, a magazine supplement (auf Deutsch) for Die Zeit.
FYI…this is not me. Like definitely not me.
My feet were dragging across a rocky singletrack trail in the Superstition Wilderness east of Phoenix. It was nearly 90 degrees outside and I was 43 miles into a 52.4 mile run—a double marathon. The entire right side of my body was cramping, my legs were sapped of energy, and I could feel my heart rate climbing like a mountain goat up a scree field.
I hurt. I hurt bad. I was in what ultrarunners call the “pain cave,” and I was trying to claw my way out.
As deep as I was in that abyss of agony, it was about to get worse. Tired from the accumulated miles and stress of the heat, my legs faltered and my toe caught a rock. I tripped, face-planting into the dirt, crags, and cacti below.
It was then that I faced a choice: to pick up my sorry, spasming body and continue on — or, to slither into the scant shade provided by a lonely piñon pine and hope that a hiker or runner would find me before I shriveled up into dust, disappointment, and despair.
That moment called for courage, and I didn’t know if I had any to summon.
